


What Would Lewis Do?

by owlbsurfinbird



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, gentle humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 19:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4972690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James has an admirer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Would Lewis Do?

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to wendymr for beta-reading and Brit-picking.

There was a muffin on his desk. A squiggle of white icing graced its yellow top. Lemon, he thought.

"Cheers," Hathaway said to Lizzie.

"I didn't put it there," Lizzie said, her tone arch. She appeared to be fascinated with the stack of papers on her desk. "She did." She glanced up, pinning him to the wall with her dark eyes. "And you need to do something about it."

"Aren't you my gatekeeper?" Hathaway draped his jacket over the back of his desk chair, sat down, and rocked back, his hands clasped on his stomach. "Thought that was in your job description."

Her eyes narrowed. She picked up a sheaf of papers, smacking the edge of the disorderly sheets against her desktop.

He rocked forward, sighing. "What?"

She shot him another look and carefully set the papers aside, just so.

"Go on, tell me, Lizzie. You know you're dying to."

"It's _your_ fault, her bringing all the little gifts. You started it."

"Me? I did nothing of the sort. I don't even know her."

"Right, yeah, well, you do know her because you talked with her, practically had lunch with her."

Hathaway huffed a laugh. "What?"

"You and she talked for nearly twenty minutes last week—"

"Five minutes."

"Eighteen. Gurdip timed you."

"What?"

Lizzie rolled her eyes. "Please stop saying that. 'What?' It sounds dodgy."

"Whole thing is dodgy, as far as I'm concerned." This could not be happening. He'd know if he'd had lunch with the woman. "Why is she leaving me—things?"

"She likes you." Lizzie met his eyes. "She really likes you. I don't know why either, but she does, so this is your fault."

Hathaway blinked. How could this woman's feelings for him be his fault? "I truly don't understand. I saw that she was reading Kierkegaard, which is not the norm for the lot in the canteen, and I asked her why."

"You listened to her."

He nodded. Of course he'd listened to her, she'd made a few intelligent points. "Fine. We talked for a few minutes."

"And later you poured out water for her tea."

Fuck. "I was holding the kettle. What was I supposed to do? I poured out Lewis's tea too, and no one's talking about that."

"You do that all the time. No, you poured out her tea and then you did the worst thing of all."

_This was becoming educational._

"You don't know, do you? Sir, you smiled at her."

"So?"

"You don't smile at anyone, ever. I was here for months before you even made eye contact."

He shook his head slightly. "She's bringing me—muffins and, God, what was it last week? An apple, sweets…and all this because I smiled at her. Really?"

Lizzie took a deep breath and held it, as if she were counting. "She _likes_ you."

_Now it was becoming intolerable._ "She's infatuated, is that what you're trying to say? She fancies me? That's ludicrous."

Lizzie sighed. "She's—well, sir, she's nice. She's very intelligent." She sat up a bit straighter, squaring her shoulders. "I like her. We all like her. She has the worst taste in men, though."

"Thank you for that assessment." Hathaway rubbed the back of his neck and let his hand drop into his lap. "I'm not interested in that sort of thing, you know that. Everyone knows that." He hunched over, elbows on his knees. _At least I thought I had given that impression._ Ascetic, possibly even asexual. Not that it was anyone's bloody business.

Nothing in the Inspector course had truly prepared him for this. Normally he'd ask himself 'What would Lewis do?' and he knew, from personal experience, that Lewis would go out of his way to make the woman an integral part of the team, would even run into a burning building to save her, if need be.

He remembered, too, how much that meant, feeling someone cared for him. Wanting to care for that person as well. Endless cups of tea, takeaway, telly. Listening to Robbie as he dithered about retirement, Laura, Lyn, everything.

Lewis would take her under his wing. Lewis would mentor her. Lewis would care. Lewis would be gentle and kind and—fuck.

He gave a resigned sigh, picked up the muffin. "It's not appropriate, though, her leaving offerings like this. From now on, if I'm not in the office, it's your job to be the gatekeeper, sergeant."

Lizzie nodded, not quite looking at him, frowning.

"I'll talk to her," he said, reluctantly. "Do you have a knife?"

"Planning to cut out her heart? Sir?"

Hathaway bit his bottom lip, frowning. Insubordinate, and he would never have made that sort of remark—well, no, he _had_ made that sort of remark, on occasion, had been brutally honest with Lewis back in the day. Sergeants had a duty to point out their inspector's failings. _Fine. Right._ "If you have a knife, I can cut the muffin in half and share it with her to soften the blow. I'll make it clear that it's station policy and not her, all right?" Even as he said it, he knew that it was what Lewis would do.

Lizzie glanced up, her expression softening. "I don't have a knife, but I expect there are utensils in the canteen. Um, but don't take her there, yeah? Too many people there, you know, if she starts to cry."

_What a horrible thought._ "Is she likely to cry?" _Over this? Over me? Good God._

"If you cock it up, yeah." She stopped herself, closed her eyes. "Sir."

"Well, then I'll make sure not to cock it up." He stopped at the door and turned. "Do you have a suggestion for a venue for this chat?"

"Not in the office, not in the canteen, not right outside the building."

"That leaves the river path or a pub."

"Don't take her to a pub, sir, she'll get the wrong idea."

"I had worked that out on my own." He tilted his head. "Is there any reason that you and—" He waved his other hand— "Everyone else seems to think that I'm incapable of handling this with sensitivity?"

She blinked at him. He could see that she knew the reason and was dying to tell him.

"What?"

"It's just that you're as clueless about these things as she is. Sir."

He didn't know what to say to that, since it was the truth. He gave a curt nod as he left his office in search of a knife and the muffin giver.

He hadn't meant to talk with her that day in the canteen. She was in uniform and he scarcely noticed uniforms any more now that he didn't have to order them about. But the cover of the book was familiar and he was surprised, that's all. Coppers don't read Kierkegaard. Hell, no one reads dead philosophers unless they have to.

He'd wondered if she was a student, asked if she was on the fast track. No, she simply wanted to read philosophy. It wasn't a ruse or a wind up—she answered his questions intelligently. She was an odd duck, though pleasant enough. He'd had the impression that they had talked for five minutes at the most, but nearly twenty? Bit unusual, that.

When he saw her the following day, he poured out her tea, poured out Lewis's tea since they were all standing there. He didn't recall anything special about it. Surely he'd poured out for other people over the years, hadn't he? Maybe not, though.

He couldn't recall smiling at her, though he must have at some point, if Lizzie observed it. Lizzie didn't miss a bloody thing. Detail oriented and hyper-alert was our Lizzie.

To sum it up: talked with her, poured her tea, and smiled at her. It didn't sound like flirting to him, though he was hardly an expert. It was friendly, though, and yes, he had enjoyed the apple on his desk. Had thanked her in the hall—briefly and professionally, he thought. It was a bloody apple, not as if he was Adam and she was Eve.

Though she might think that if she liked him.

_Shit._

The sweets were his favorite type and at first he thought they were from Julie because he'd written her a letter of rec, but when he asked, she'd been thrilled to point to PC—fuck, he didn't even know her Christian name.

Murphy. He'd heard Lewis call her 'Murphy.'

He stopped in the corridor. Maybe he needed to talk to HR, look up her Christian name, or look it up on his smartphone. Or he could ask Gurdip. And maybe he'd ask why Gurdip had timed the encounter. He swung into Gurdip's office.

Murphy was hovering over Gurdip's shoulder. "I know your primary concern is the data. This is for the analysts. It's easier to read."

They turned.

"Inspector." Gurdip had taken to calling Hathaway by his new title at every opportunity.

"Gurdip, Murphy." _There, that wasn't so terrible._ "Um, someone very kindly and anonymously left me this large muffin. Would you care for a piece? Both of you? Either of you?"

Gurdip smiled broadly. "Oh, I couldn't possibly, I've got a lunch appointment." He gave a nod to Murphy. "You can use my office, if you like. While I'm gone. To eat your muffin. Look at the time. Must run."

Hathaway set the muffin on the desk as Gurdip dashed out. Well, that wasn't exactly what he'd intended. Murphy was giving him a mild look, reserved. Slightly suspicious.

She wouldn't cry, he was sure of it. She looked so—so sturdy. What his mother might have called 'peasant stock.' The sort of woman who worked below stairs at the estate, never complained, the loyal retainer busily taking care of everyone else except herself.

Because Murphy was a tiny bit of a fright. Her hair was a mousy brown, escaping from a tight bun on the back of her head that was truly unflattering. She wore no makeup—not even lip gloss—on her unfortunate, unremarkable face. Her eyes weren't pretty, they didn't sparkle, they had no depth. Her lips weren't full, her smile was perfunctory. She was neither ugly nor truly plain, but she was pudgy. Round. Yes, she carried a little extra weight, pushing the edge of regulations, he was sure, for she was robust. Her treats to him had been what she might have liked to eat on her own, he imagined.

She read philosophy for fun. Except for that, she was average, in every sense of the word.

And she was staring at him.

"I'm glad we have this opportunity to talk on our own." He had had this portion of the training, he realized, managing and disciplining a subordinate. _Firstly, establish the topic to be covered._ "It's about the things you've been leaving on my desk." _Secondly, make a positive statement._ "I appreciate the _thought_ behind it." _Thirdly, state what is incorrect about the behavior._ "It isn't appropriate, however." _Fourth, state the proper behavior._ "Please don't leave anything for me on my desk." _Fifth, reiterate the worth of the subordinate as you restate your expectations and desires for future behavior._ "It is kind of you, but it cannot continue."

She nodded, looked away. "I thought, since I worked in a different department, it would be all right. I didn't think it through. It was foolish, I know."

He edged his bum onto the corner of the desk. "Then why do it?"

She met his eyes. "I don't know." She shrugged and looked away again. "I don't usually like people and it took me by surprise. It won't happen again. Don't worry." She bit her bottom lip. "Sir," she added.

That's when it hit him. She hadn't called him 'sir' at any point in their conversations together. It wasn't a requirement, not for her, since she didn't report to him directly. But it was unprofessional, disrespectful.

Weirdly refreshing.

He felt as if he should leave, since his duty was done, but he knew Lewis wouldn't leave, not yet. He felt awkward. Lewis would smooth it over. "It's a large muffin and it seems a waste not to eat it. Would you mind sharing it with me?"

"Is that appropriate?" she said, quietly, sarcasm in her tone. "I'm sorry, that was uncalled for." She gave a resigned sigh and plopped into the chair Gurdip had vacated. "You don't have to pretend to be nice to me. I understand, I really do. Just thought, well, it doesn't matter what I thought, does it?" She gave him a tight smile.

"What?" He had to stop using that lazy word. "What did you think?" he clarified.

She sighed, picked up the knife and sliced the muffin. "You took the time to talk with me. And I like you. I thought you might like me. I was wrong. End of story. Not important."

"It's not that I don't like you, it's simply that I don't like people—" He was doing it, now, saying how he didn't usually like anyone either, which wasn't true. He didn't like anyone romantically, not anymore, and how to explain that to someone whose cheeks were spotted red with embarrassment or shame, and who seemed to be angry or sad enough to be on the verge of tears. He simply remembered those few times when he had desperately wanted to tell Lewis how he felt about, well, all of it—and he couldn't. He remembered how extraordinarily difficult it was not to reveal emotion, how she must be chewing the inside of her cheek, how fast her heart must be beating. He could see the beads of sweat forming on her temples. He knew how that felt.

_Please don't cry._

The spots on her cheeks reddened. She stared at that damn lemon muffin and he was waiting for a big fat tear to drop onto the damn thing and, fuck, he had made her cry and Lewis, well, Lewis would never have let this happen. Lewis would open himself up.

"I studied to be a priest, did you know? Before I was in uniform."

Her head came up sharply.

Gotcha, he thought, surprised that tidbit hadn't come up in office gossip. "I was uniquely suited for the priesthood because, like you, I didn't like people very much." He shook his head, not quite true, since he cared about people but was afraid to show it. "I liked most individuals well enough, certainly, but I couldn't see myself managing a congregation. I didn't have a good understanding of relationships—I had never had one and never wanted one—so I would have been pants at being a counselor of any sort." He folded his arms, hoping his explanation would suffice.

_Apparently not._

She cocked her head, doubtful, assessing him. "Okay."

"Lizzie says I'm clueless," he offered. "It's not you, Murphy, I promise."

"So it's not because I'm fat." She dropped the final word as a gauntlet, as if daring him to deny it.

"No, it's not." At least, he hoped he wasn't that shallow. If she had been pretty, would he have minded the food offerings so much? He didn't know, so he took the high road. "Thin or fat, tall or short—" Male or female, he wanted to add, but didn't. "It doesn't matter to me. I don't— _fancy_ people, as a rule."

"But you have in the past," she said defensively. "Or so everyone says."

_When would the office gossip die?_ "Long time ago." An office dalliance, nothing more. And none of their business or yours, for that matter, he should say. But he didn't. He didn't even know why he was still sitting there. He didn't owe her a bloody thing, not one bloody thing. He had dispatched the muffin matter and he had work to do.

But Lewis would listen with kindness. "You're new to the nick, Murphy. Don't put too much stock in what you hear."

"Right. Sorry. Sir." She tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear. "It's just that I enjoyed our conversation. I was lonely and talking to you made me feel less lonely, I suppose. I usually bring sweets for lunch and then, when I thought about you, I thought you might like them. I didn't want to eat. Not like I need to eat, right?" She shrugged, making a joke. "The treats were to thank you for being kind to me."

God help me, he thought. Lonely women. Wasn't that how Lewis had been sucked into that Mrs. Marber's life? He was still dropping by now and again to check on her four years later! He and Laura had even had the woman to tea. Is this what duty of care looks like in modern policing?

And shouldn't it start with our own?

He dropped his arms, stuck his hands in his pockets. Murphy watched him with a palpable weariness. He imagined her going back to her flat that evening and power-eating a box of biscuits. He'd go home and drink half a bottle of wine. Lonely people.

_Fuck._

"So—you were sharing your lunch. That means you didn't mind eating less."

"I only eat when I'm feeling lonely. Or down. It's a recent thing in the last year or so. I wasn't always this way."

He hoped he wouldn't regret what he was about to propose. "I like to walk. Do you like a brisk walk now and again? Good exercise?" He could see that she was interested, but hesitant. "I'm not looking for anything other than being a very casual, well, walking partner, nothing more. I'm not the sort who does that with anyone." _Not anymore._ He smiled slightly, feeling apologetic. "Maybe we could take a walk instead of eating lunch once a week?"

"Why?"

Because that's what Lewis would do, he wanted to say. "Because, just once a week, I'd like to walk and talk with someone who reads philosophy, that's all. Would you consider it?"

She smiled. It would be nice to say that it lit up her face and her eyes, but it didn't, not at all. "Sure," she said, reluctantly.

But he could live with that. It was only walking.

And it's what Lewis would do, after all.

+++

"You can see why she prefers to be called Murphy," Gurdip said, glancing at the personnel file Hathaway had pulled up on his screen.

Galatea. Her parents must have been classical scholars. The statue that Pygmalion fell in love with. A few horrid nicknames came to mind. Her middle name was Vesta. _What had her parents been thinking?_

"All of the compiled data and CCTV you requested for your presentation this afternoon is on this." Gurdip handed Hathaway a USB drive. "She shares a name with a supervillain," he added, conversationally. "Justice League."

Hathaway glanced up. "What? Galatea? It's not in the comics."

"Animated series."

"Oh, well. Might as well not exist then." He held up the drive. "Cheers."

Gurdip waved it off, grinning. "My pleasure, Inspector."

Hathaway went back to perusing the information in her file. She'd left Canterbury Christ Church—Digital Forensics and Security in the School of Law—after a year and a half. A new university. How a university barely half a century old could even be considered a university was beyond him. Went home to look after her father who'd died the previous year, according to her employment application. So, not precisely fast track, but some combination of forces had managed to get her into uniform and promoted quickly. Special constable with IT expertise. Not surprising, really.

He had never bothered to learn her Christian name because he didn't want to use his privilege to pry, though of course he'd been curious. Finding out about her by looking at her file rather than asking her directly may have seemed unnecessarily convoluted, but it saved time for more important topics of conversation. After two months, they still weren't proper friends, after all, though he had to admit they were more than acquaintances and walking partners.

They walked at least once or twice a week, usually on the spur of the moment. Not as though he needed to walk more than he already did, but he enjoyed the opportunity to discuss philosophy and the moral implications of what law enforcement did on a daily basis. She had a fine mind, and the conversation often strayed to other topics: books she'd read, books he was planning on reading.

Engaging, stimulating. A pleasant diversion. Yes, he enjoyed their walks. It was a nice break during the day. As was the presence of the man tapping at the door jamb.

"Heard you're walking out," said Lewis, grinning. "Spotted it myself, in fact. Spring in your step and you've stopped snapping at the help."

Hathaway rocked back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. "It's not what you think."

"Doesn't matter what I think. You've got a friend."

"I have lots of friends. You're one of them, in fact."

Lewis shrugged, still teasing. "Laura says that you've worked wonders."

"Sorry?" Why did every single personal thing come under scrutiny in this office? "It's not as if she's a project." He wouldn't tolerate people thinking that he was trying to change Murphy or something. They'd be dead wrong. He didn't want her to change.

"She's dropped over a stone."

"I hadn't noticed." He had, but he didn't feel it was his place to say anything. Where she had previously been chunky, she was now softly rounded. Still, he couldn't say anything other than, 'You look well,' if he said anything at all. And he hadn't. It would imply that he had noticed her weight before, and since he had denied that it was at all meaningful, he couldn't say anything now that she was losing it.

Lewis didn't appear to be fooled. He settled his bum on the edge of Hathaway's desk. "She's done her hair. It's a big deal, when a woman gets her hair done like that."

"I truly hadn't noticed." Because he hadn't. Her hair was immaterial to him. It was in a bun on the top of her head and often wound up in sweaty curls around her face when they walked, but it was just hair.

"Word of advice: compliment her hair. Women like that sort of thing."

"We don't have that kind of friendship." Couldn’t they go walking without tongues wagging? He wasn't interested in anything other than walking and talking with her, he really wasn't.

"You comment on my hair when I get it cut."

"That's because your barber does a shitty job. It's criminal."

Lewis raised his eyebrows. "Well, just saying. And good luck today with your lecture. I'm sure someone is looking forward to it."

"But not you."

"I don't have to be there." Lewis rapped on the desk with a knuckle as he rose to leave. "One of the benefits of partial retirement." He turned at the door. "You could bring Murphy with you to ours on Friday when you come for dinner."

Hathaway gave him a long-suffering smile. _Never happen._ "I'll be on my own. I don't think you need any other victims for your culinary attempts."

"Just for that, I'm going to try making Beef Wellington again." Lewis started off.

"So, I'll be bringing red wine and Tums, yeah?" Hathaway called after him.

+++

"Did you do something with your hair? It looks different." There, he had remarked on her hair. It did look better with the slight streaks of gold in it. She was wearing it down, too, wavy to her shoulders so that it framed her face, and that helped immensely. All in all, it looked rather nice before she swept it up into a ponytail and twisted it into a bun to get it out of the way.

She nodded. "Yeah. Did you have a chance to look at that book, _Policing Digital Crime_ , that I left on your desk?"

"Didn't I ask you not to leave things on my desk?" He smiled slightly, his voice gentle. She no longer left food, but there were still occasional offerings of articles or books. She only left items that pertained to their conversations, never anything else.

What kind of music did she like? She talked intelligently and passionately about art as it related to philosophy, but what sort of art did she like? Had she ever been, oh, punting? Had she ever traveled? He didn't even know if she played chess.

He wanted to ask, but he didn't feel it was his place to do so. He was a walking partner, not a friend, not really.

"So… application of grid computing to the automation of mobile phone forensic investigations or shall we continue talking about 'truth as subjectivity'?" She set out at a brisk pace.

"'Truth as subjectivity.' I think you may know more than I do about cybercrime."

Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight as she smiled at him.

He faltered, catching himself mid-stride. Surely it had been some trick of the light, seeing sudden flecks of gold in her eyes. It must have been.

She walked slightly ahead of him, and he had to pick up his pace to catch up with her.

+++

Lizzie picked up the cardboard box containing evidence bags from a previous case. "I'll take this down."

"I'll do it," Hathaway said, trying to take the box. The evidence lock-up was just past Murphy's office. It was a lovely day, warm with a slight breeze. Perhaps she wouldn't mind walking for a third time that week.

"She's not in, sir." Lizzie held onto the box. "Called in sick." She cocked her head, teasing. "Maybe it's all that walking."

"Fresh air will do that." But Murphy didn't strike him as someone who would take a sick day without good cause. "Do you think it's something serious?"

Lizzie regarded him with open disbelief, eyebrows rising. "I'm not a doctor, sir."

"You're saying you don't know."

She nodded, setting down the box so that she could watch how he would proceed.

Her scrutiny was disquieting. He sat down at his desk and pulled up Murphy's phone number—something he had never needed to know— and remembered those moments when he had been a sergeant. Lewis would ask where Dr. Hobson was and if she was ill, it was Hathaway's duty not only to find out if it was serious, but to take over whatever duties were pending so that Lewis could be on Hobson's doorstep with takeaway, tissues, and paracetamol. It was what sergeants do.

Most sergeants.

He shot Lizzie a glance. "Don't you have to get that back to evidence lock-up?" He tried to keep his tone mild, rather than needling.

"No rush." She folded her arms, watching him.

"Lizzie." He jerked his head toward the door as the phone on the other end rang and rang. He rang off. Now that he had her number, he would send a text. Casual, as a walking partner would do, to ask how she was. If it wasn't serious, maybe they could take a walk later in the week. If it was serious, did she need anything?

Like what? Tissues? Blood donation, possibly? No, he deleted that last bit.

"Don't send it, sir."

He glanced up. Lizzie was watching him. There was kindness in her expression, almost sadness, too, as if she was beginning to understand him. It was an expression he'd seen often enough on women of his acquaintance. Dr. Hobson had refined it to an art.

Lizzie moistened her lips. "Murphy's up at Durham, looking into going back to uni. New course and all. She didn't want everyone to know, so please don't let on."

He'd only mentioned it last week, saying that she might want to look into resuming her studies. He didn't think she'd take it to heart. At least, he hadn't hoped she'd take it to heart so quickly. Did she really hate Oxford so much that she wanted to leave?

"Cheers." He tucked the mobile back into his pocket, glancing at his watch. Lizzie took that as her cue to leave the office, taking the box of evidence with her. He rocked back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head before slumping to his desk. He needed a cigarette.

He had cut down considerably in the last month or so. Unspoken agreement, perhaps, with his walking partner, but he needed the nicotine. It helped him think. A pint would do the same.

A pint with a friend.

He pulled his mobile from his pocket. "Are you free this afternoon for a pint?"

+++

Hathaway steepled his hands on the pub table he and Lewis had taken in the corner. "I'd appreciate your advice."

Lewis widened his eyes and whipped out his smartphone, making a show of marking his calendar. "I want to remember this day."

"You're funny."

Lewis sipped his pint, his expression gentle. "I hear Murphy is leaving."

"How is it that everyone heard about this before I did? How—" He shook his head in frustration. "No, who, that's it, who told you? Does everyone know? Why didn't she tell me?"

"Maybe you should be asking her that."

"Maybe I would if she wasn't up at Durham today. Law school. She's a perfectly good copper, why law? We've talked about it, she and I, and I thought she agreed with Shakespeare."

"What? 'First, kill all the lawyers'?"

Hathaway drank half of his pint in a single angry gulp. That's where he'd picked up the habit. 'What?' It was his association with Lewis. Over the years he was slowly becoming the man. He glanced down at the table and huffed a sigh.

He could do worse than become another Robbie Lewis.

"I'm glad she's considering it. Moving on. She's an intelligent person, she should be doing more with her life than listening to Peterson's current lackwit sergeant ordering her about. D'ya know—" He took another pull of his drink. "—she's the one who's been helping Gurdip with automating forensics for mobile phone searches. Yeah, and Lizzie says she's lost nearly two stone since we started walking."

"And she changed her hair," Lewis said softly. "Dressing nicer. Oh, you know that's not the whole of it, not at all. Because it's not how she looks, lad, it's how she's feeling better about herself. Taking care of herself again. That's down to you." Lewis nursed his pint. "Death of her dad hit her hard, you know."

How did Lewis know about the death of Murphy's father? Why wasn't James Hathaway on this email message that everyone else in the nick had apparently received? They were friends, weren't they, he and Murphy?

Or maybe they weren't.

He'd been so bloody careful to keep her at arm's length, so intent on not getting involved with her, with anyone, that he hadn't even treated her with common courtesy. He knew she liked him, so he wasn't about to indulge her interest. Must be a failing on her part, he thought, her liking him.

He hadn't stopped to consider that he might like her. Even the tiniest bit.

Now she would be leaving.

And he still didn't know if she played chess.

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked Lewis, finishing off his pint. If it was, it was as good an excuse as any to get pissed.

The older man shrugged. "Depends on what you're thinking. Too late? For being friends, no. For being anything more, yeah, I think so. She's leaving, after all. Asked me to write a letter of rec." He took a deep breath, letting the air out slowly, as if he was being crushed by a weight. "James, you can't keep throwing people—throwing friendship, love—away. You—you've done it too often, man. It's a sad habit, and one that will make you a lonely man."

But he didn't love her! Of course not. That was ridiculous. He barely knew her. Even after months, he didn't know her. He wasn't even sure he liked her. They weren't even proper friends. But he did enjoy their walks, enjoyed talking with her, enjoyed looking at that damn bun in her hair and the way her eyes seemed to sparkle when she looked at him.

Fuck. He liked her. He did. But nothing more, he was sure of that, at least. "How come she didn't ask me for a letter of rec?"

Lewis shrugged. "Dunno. Why don't you ask her?"

Because he was afraid she'd tell him.

+++

The rain was loud against the windows of his too-warm office. Nearly a month of rain now. Hathaway rocked back in his desk chair, putting his hands behind his head. Lewis was on holiday with Hobson in Barcelona where it was sunny. He glanced over at Lizzie's desk. She was off-rota for the next two days. He was off-rota, too, but he didn't have anything better to do. He could sit here and watch the rain or he could sit at home and watch the rain and drink.

At least here he was being productive.

He turned around in his chair and pulled a stack of files from the bookshelf. There was a tap on the door.

"Come," he said, rifling through the files, his back to the door.

"Hi."

He spun around.

Murphy was holding the edge of the door.

He dumped the stack of files back onto the bookshelf and rose. "Hey. You look well. Uni agrees with you."

She blushed, smiling. Pleased. Her eyes sparkled. Her hair glinted beneath the office fluorescent lights. She looked beautiful. Really beautiful.

And yet—she hadn't changed. She was slimmer, yes, but not thin. It didn't matter, not at all. She was still plain, still peasant stock, still average, still—intelligent, still—

"Still reading philosophy for fun?" he asked, smiling and gesturing to a chair.

"I am." She shook the rain off her coat and hung it up. She sat on the edge of the seat, as if nervous. "I didn't think you'd be in. Are you still walking?"

"Not much." He settled a hip onto the corner of his desk. "I miss my walking partner." He hadn't realized it until the words were out of his mouth.

"Do you?" She seemed thrown by his admission. "I'd offer to go walking, but we'd get soaked."

"Have you eaten?"

"We never eat at lunch." She was looking up at him, puzzled.

"Let's eat lunch, then. Why are you in Oxford? Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"Because we only email once a week. Because we only write about things related to law enforcement." She moistened her lips. "I thought that's what you wanted," she said carefully.

"Yeah." _I thought that's what I wanted too. I am a dolt._ "I did. It's not a hard and fast rule, though."

She gathered her bag closer. "I didn’t expect to see you."

"So you said. Why? Were you planning to leave something on my desk?" He tossed the words off easily and then realized from her expression that she had planned to do just that. He folded his arms and raised his eyebrows.

She met his eyes, and her expression was kind and very fond. She chewed on her bottom lip, as if she was trying to hold her words back, and then she sighed.

"It's here somewhere. Nothing much, really," she said, searching in her bag. "I was thinking of you and came across it."

He hadn't thought of her much at all. Except a few times a week when looking at email and wondering why he only heard from her once a week. Usually drawing his attention to an article of mutual interest or asking him procedural questions about handling cases or evidence. Though once she sent him a rambling, rather poetic email about walking alone, 'composed late at night after too much wine.' And within hours he had received another email, asking him to ignore the first.

He ignored both. Though he read the first email often. He understood the loneliness there, had felt it himself. But he couldn't do anything. It seemed kinder, all around, to simply say nothing at all. What would Lewis do in this instance? He had no idea.

He returned his attention to the woman in front of him.

She held up a purple pen stamped 'University of Durham' triumphantly. She beamed at him, a lovely smile that hadn't changed at all since that first time he had talked with her in the canteen months ago about Kierkegaard.

He'd changed.

It had happened so gradually, he hadn't realized it. But he felt it now. Recognized it as something he'd had once and somehow lost along the way. He had believed people were basically good. He'd had compassion for them. Over time, he'd seen their hearts ripped apart and to protect his own, he had created a protective shell.

He could feel it cracking.

He took the offered pen from her hand. "Cheers." _Fine. Right._ "So. Durham." He shook his head and let it hang. _It's four hours away. And you asked Inspector Lewis for a letter of rec and not me._ He glanced up at her.

"Thought I'd leave a pen for you so you'd think of me once in a while. It clicks."

"Oh." He clicked the pen. Clicked it again. "Lovely."

"Annoys the shit out of Lizzie when you fidget with your pen."

He rubbed the back of his neck to hide a smirk. "She's never mentioned it."

"Made a big deal about it at my leaving do. Said you couldn't make it because you were sitting at your desk, clicking away, driving her mad."

"Yeah. I was on a case." _A cold case._ "Sorry I couldn't make it." He leaned back to set the pen next to his keyboard and folded his arms again. People leave all the time, so it's simply best not to get attached to anyone. Especially someone that you might like. Easier that way.

But Lewis went to her bloody party. Of course he did. It was the right thing to do. Said everyone had a nice time and understood how it was, needing to work.

He dropped his arms, his hands gripping the underside of the desk on either side of his body. This was the problem with having friendships: people you liked often liked each other. No telling what they talked about when you weren't around.

She shrugged. "I understand."

_You do?_ He tilted his head, enquiring. _How can you understand what I truly don't understand myself?_

"I might have embarrassed you. Everyone was hugging each other and I was a little soppy. And it's not as though you and I were friends, really. Inspector Lewis—well, Robbie— said you might not want to hurt my feelings by pretending."

"What?" James pursed his lips. "I'm not sure what he's on about." _I know exactly what he's on about._ "Of course we're friends, Murphy. We email, stay in touch. You—" His gaze shifted to the pen. "—Bring me such lovely things." He smirked.

"They were giving them away." She grinned and shouldered her bag. "So is it okay to keep writing to you?"

"Sure," he said. It seemed as good a time as any to ask, and he wanted to know, since they were being honest with each other and they were friends. He was sure of that, too, strangely enough. "Why didn't you ask me to write a letter of rec for you? You might have been offered a place at Oxford…"

She moistened her lips, her eyes downcast. "I turned down the offer from Oxford."

"What? Why?" _Good God. Please don't tell me that it was because of me._

She finally looked up at him. "I was tempted to stay, but I wanted to concentrate on my studies. Too many distractions here." She gave him a gentle smile. "I'd be spending my time leaving things on your desk and hanging about the nick." She winced as she admitted, "I like you. As a friend. It meant more than you can possibly know, being able to talk with someone."

Perhaps he no longer needed to ask himself what Lewis would do because it came to him now, effortlessly, though belatedly.

"Well. I'd like to know about uni, your courses, your lecturers. Um, you." _Things I would have asked anyone else, but for some reason I never asked you._ "We can talk over lunch." He gave a nod and stood up abruptly.

"I don't usually eat lunch. You helped me start a healthier habit." She met his eyes. "Thank you."

He smiled slightly, not sure what to do or say. He settled for a heartfelt nod.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and her coat from the hook on the wall. He held her coat for her.

She stared at him, seemingly unaccustomed to chivalry, and shrugged awkwardly into her coat.

It didn't help that he was out of practice holding a coat. He'd always thought of himself as unfailingly polite, even gallant, but he realized, as he stood there, that he couldn't remember the last time he'd been courteous to anyone. He didn't have anyone to be courteous to, for one thing.

He held the door open for her. "I've been meaning to ask you, Murphy. Do you happen to play chess?"

She quirked a grin, looking over her shoulder before nodding. "I'm a decent player."

"We'll have to arrange to play via email, then. A game of chess between friends." James knew exactly what Lewis would say to that: 'About bloody time, lad.'

He let his hand fall to her shoulder, guiding her out the door. He kept it there, too, because there had been a time years ago when he touched people without a second thought. He missed that part of himself, the part that had cared about people. Missed helping. Missed the man he'd once been, the one who ached to be as kind as Lewis.

He ignored the almost startled look she gave him. His hand on her back was a casual gesture, nothing more, made with the confidence of one friend to another. It was a comfort, reaching out to her. He clearly remembered the times that Lewis had reached out to him, grounding him when he needed it most.

She had bared her soul and if he couldn't do the same, the least he could do was let her know that she mattered to him. He wouldn't, couldn't embrace her, because it would be misinterpreted. But he moved his hand from her shoulder to a spot between her shoulder blades, as they left the office. He could feel the tension there. He squeezed her shoulders before he dropped his hand to his side. "You're a good friend, Murphy," he said softly and with conviction.

Because he was absolutely sure that this was what Lewis would do.


End file.
